“Another five miles,” Kretsch said. “It’s the last of the islands before you hit the big water, so it’s pretty far out there.”
The wind was against them, and Bascombe, at the helm, gripped the wheel and seemed tense as they bounced through the chop of the waves. They’d passed to the west of Massacre Island, which lay on the other side of the boundary line with Canada, and then Little Oak Island, and finally Garden Island, where the lake had opened up in front of them. On the horizon far to the south, Cork could see nothing. The big water, he knew. There was something about that vast expanse of looming emptiness that was a little frightening. He much preferred the sense of intricacy created by the tangle of islands behind them. Or better yet, the intimacy of the small, clear lakes of home, Tamarack County.
“What do you know about the folks who run the camp?” he asked Kretsch.
The deputy squinted against the wind, and lines cracked the suntanned skin of his face. “Not much. Not quite as accessible as the Baptists used to be. Keep pretty much to themselves, but no trouble. They have money, apparently. They bought the island outright with cash.”
“What denomination are they?”
“I’m not entirely sure.”
“No particular denomination,” Bascombe said to them over his shoulder. “They call themselves the Church of the Seven Trumpets.”
“Never heard of them,” Cork said.
“Pretty fundamentalist, I understand. Holy Rollers or something,” Bascombe said. “But like Tom was saying, no trouble. Me, I think religion is for the faint of heart.”
“What do you mean?” Kretsch asked, a little edge of irritation to his voice.
“I know you’re a good Catholic boy, Tom. But it seems to me religion mostly offers false comfort to folks afraid of dying.”
Stephen had seemed intent on studying the islands as they passed, but now he turned to Bascombe. “You’re not afraid of dying?”
“Sure I am. But when I’m standing at that door, I don’t want some pasty-faced young minister telling me things are going to be better on the other side. Hell, how would he know? You man up to things in life, and I figure death’s no different. That’s all I’m saying.”
Stephen looked off toward a small gathering of bare rocks surrounded by angry water and seemed to think about Bascombe’s comments. Finally he said, “Mr. Bascombe, I respect your opinion, but for me, my religion’s about a way of living, not dying.”
Kretsch’s clear blue eyes sparkled with approval, and the deputy gave Stephen a broad grin. “I’ve never heard it said better.”
Bascombe glanced back and said affably, “Call me Seth, son.”
Stephen looked again at the great water across which they bounded. Cork was proud of his son. Stephen, in his short life, had suffered great blows. He’d been kidnapped when he was very young. He’d seen his father shot— nearly fatally—right in front of him. He’d lost his mother. Yet his faith was strong. And Cork knew it wasn’t the result alone of his Catholic upbringing, nor was it strictly Christian. Of all his children, Stephen was the one in whom the blood of the Anishinaabeg ran most powerfully, and his spirituality came as much from the teaching of men like Henry Meloux, the old Ojibwe Mide, as it did from the text of the New Testament.
“There it is,” Bascombe hollered over the wind and the slap of waves. “Stump Island.”
He pointed south, where a long gray-green worm seemed to sit on the sun-stained water. As they drew nearer, it grew into a flat, heavily wooded island. Cork could see nothing beyond it but the blue horizon. It felt to him as if he was looking at the last outpost in a great liquid desert.
“Anybody else on the island besides the camp folks?” he asked Kretsch.
“Nope. They’ve got the whole place to themselves. Don’t need outside help. For their electricity and heat, they’ve got solar panels and that big wind generator.” He pointed toward a white wind turbine that stood high above everything else on the island. “Propane for backup. They filter their own water, grow a lot of their own food. Pretty much self-sustaining.”
The island was easily a half a mile long, flat and heavily wooded, and the shoreline looked to be all rock. Bascombe guided the launch around the west end, where a gathering of cabins and other buildings came suddenly into view, spread out along the finger of a broad peninsula. The cabins were clapboard painted cedar red. Two structures stood out: the tall wind generator, bone white, and the dark metal spider webbing of another tower currently under construction. The tower looked as if it might, when finished, be used for radio broadcasting. Bascombe guided them toward a long dock, where a couple of big powerboats were moored. Near the dock stood a large boathouse. As they approached, two men came from the boathouse to meet them. The first was tall, blue- eyed, black-haired, gothic looking in the angular cut of his jaw and the long slope of his nose. He wore a denim shirt with sleeves rolled back and clean, faded jeans. The other man was younger, slender, willowy, handsome in a brooding way. He had the same black hair and blue eyes as the other man, and even without having been introduced, Cork figured they were family. They both cradled rifles.
“What’s with the hardware, Gabe?” Bascombe called as they motored up.
The taller, older man let the rifle hang in one hand, barrel toward the ground, unthreatening. “Just making sure that I knew you and that you’re friendly, Seth. We had someone trespassing last night, someone with a firearm. Took a couple of shots at us.”
“Anybody hurt?” Kretsch asked.
“No, thank God.”
“You see who it was?”
“Didn’t, Tom. But it was someone in a cigarette boat, I can tell you that much. Took off fast once we came after him.”
Bascombe said, “Noah Smalldog?”
The man named Gabriel nodded. “That’s what I figured. There’s a soul bound for hell as surely as I’m standing here.”
They tied up, and when they’d all disembarked and stood together on the dock, Cork asked, “Why would Noah Smalldog come here in the middle of the night?”
Cork placed the tall man in his early forties. His hair, wild in the wind that blew across the big water, gave him a restless, almost manic look. He had eyes so blue-white they seemed made of crystal, and those eyes were looking at Cork pretty sharply.
“I don’t know you,” he said.
“My name’s Cork O’Connor. And I think this Smalldog may have taken a potshot at me, too.”
“Well, I guess that puts us in the same boat.” The man shook Cork’s hand. “I’m Gabriel Hornett.”
“This is my son, Stephen,” Cork said.
“Stephen, eh? Fine Christian name, that. A brave Christian martyr.”
“Yes, sir,” Stephen said with a brief, courteous smile. “Is that Hornet, like the insect?”
“Two
Hornett laughed, and Cork could tell it was a line he used often and was fond of. “This is my brother, Joshua.” He indicated the willowy man with brooding good looks who stood at his side. The younger Hornett gave a silent nod in acknowledgment. Cork placed Joshua in his mid-twenties, a good fifteen years younger than his brother.
“What does Smalldog have against you?” Hornett asked.
“Long story,” Cork replied.
“And part of the reason we’re here,” Kretsch said. “Can we go somewhere out of this wind and talk?”
“Sure thing. Let’s go to the community hall. This way.”
Hornett turned and led them away from the shore. His brother brought up the rear, following a few steps behind the others. Hornett took them into the heart of the church camp, a clean and pleasant place. The cabins and buildings, all sturdy-looking structures, had been recently painted and were in good repair. In addition to the metal tower under construction, there was another major project under way: a long wooden skeleton, a two-story framework of studs that appeared as if it might become a dormitory, or maybe even a barracks. The grounds were immaculate, and the paths through the trees were of crushed limestone, beautifully white against the green of the grass and the trees. There were a number of people about, all busy with the various constructions as well as the normal work of a camp—repairing steps on a cabin or raking leaves or collecting garbage. No one seemed to take
